


Behind Blue Eyes

by Ink_Gypsy, Keye



Category: LOTR RPS (AU)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Gypsy/pseuds/Ink_Gypsy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keye/pseuds/Keye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young teacher at a blind school takes a special interest in a new student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This story was conceived as being the first in a series, but creative differences forced its authors to abandon it after only one chapter.

It was a foul night, the weather a chill mix of snow and rain flung by a blustery wind off the harbor. It hadn't been cold enough in weeks to keep a good blanket of snow on the city, but a northerly front was moving in, nipping exposed skin and turning the puddles to slush.

Sean took the long way all the same, walking down along the wharf where he could get a look at the boats in dock, most of them trading ships from over the sea with their tall masts rising into the swirling darkness. He seldom got out and about, but when he did, always found himself drawn to the docks. It was the notion of travel and adventure that lured, wanderlust, plain and simple. For his own peace of mind, he tried to keep those feelings in check, but he couldn't deny the thrill he always felt to see the ships up close.

In truth, there was little he could see by gaslight, feeble and infrequent as it was. Only some third of the lamps were lit and there was much shadow between pools of hazy light. Muffled voices alerted him to a pair of men crossing the street ahead. Sailors, Dutch by the sound of their speech, tall men hunched against the weather, caps pulled low over their eyes. They entered a tavern, spilling into the night for a moment, a warm hearth light and the buzz of talk and laughter.

Sean was tempted, but it was late and Doctor Lawrence would be wondering what was keeping him. Tugging his scarf closer about his high collar, he went on and left the wharf behind at last. Shops and businesses were shuttered, but a few carts and carriages still clattered uneasily over the icy cobbles. Sean wasn't himself in any great hurry to see the end of his outing. He paused on the bridge and, out of habit, closed his eyes. The rushing of the wind there in the open damped most other sounds. A bell rang in the distance, its tone muted and flat. Nearer, a faint burbling of water parted against the pilings could be heard below. There was a smell of the sea, always, clean and brisk that night, with the more ignoble odors of the city under winter's pall and beneath sensing.

Sean walked on a way with his eyes still closed, fingertips sliding along the cold, wet-slicked railing, until a foot placed wrong nearly sent him sprawling. He opened his eyes then and watched his step, over the bridge into what was one of the city's finer quarters. The sleet became more snow than rain and began to lay a soft carpet underfoot as he made his way up the curving, tree lined avenues. Here, the lamps were all lit. Glimpses could be had behind ironworked gates of occasional lights in the windows of the grand and respectable houses of Portland's well-to-do.

Sean had lived in this neighborhood for going on ten years and knew how truly blessed he was, just to have a place to be and work to do that was worthwhile. Growing up a penniless ward of the parish, it could have been so much worse. And wishing for something more from life was mean and petty. He reminded himself of that every day, but still he yearned sometimes, against his will, to see the world and make his mark on it. That wasn't going to happen as long as he was shut away at Newsome's, with circumstance ever contriving to keep him there. He wasn't ungrateful, not in his practical mind. He just had too little control over his heart's desires.

Home was an old, converted Georgian mansion up the hill on Danforth. It loomed large in the shadow, a lamp lit on the broad, columned front porch beckoning through the quiet snowfall. Sean went in through the gate and up the walk, stopping for a moment at the door to touch his stiff, cold fingers over the pattern of dots raised in the brass plaque there. It was printed above for the sighted, Newsome's School for the Blind. Sean pushed open the wide double doors just enough to slip inside and then closed and locked them behind him.

The front hall was dimly lit and deeply shadowed, but not deserted. Neville Taggert was there watching the door, looking like a hawk after prey. The man gave him an appraising once over and Sean was acutely aware of the sight he made, disheveled and hatless, damp and dusted all over with snow.

"O'Shea."

Sean wouldn't have dared call the man just Taggert in return, so in most cases, called him nothing. He didn't do it to provoke. He avoided that kind of conflict with all his might, but he no longer cowed under those piercing stares. The man simply didn't like him because he was from humble beginnings, and Irish ones at that. It was Taggert's problem, not his.

It was little warmer inside than out, but Sean peeled off his outer coat and went to hang it on its peg in the cloakroom to dry, and his scarf after. He shook the wet out of his hair as best he could and straightened his vest and collar, then meticulously scrubbed his soles on the mat, stalling. But Taggert was there still when he stepped back out.

"Doctor wants to see you in his parlour. You're late."

The doctor hadn't told Sean to be back at a specific hour, and he didn't need Taggert telling him to report in. But he maintained a polite demeanor and only said, "Thank you." The man stared at him for several seconds more, with menace under a mask of indifference, then turned on his heel and stalked away down the hall, footsteps sharp and echoing.

The tall clock in its niche chimed nine as Sean stood there ordering his thoughts. He finally raked his fingers through his damp hair, then wiped his hands on the seat of his tailcoat and made his quiet way up the stair. There was no one about, the children all tucked into bed by then, the servants likewise. Emily and Maria would be in their rooms. Only Taggert was still up, prowling the shadows.

Lawrence's parlour door stood open, as usual. The doctor was at his desk, looking over a scatter of papers by the light of several carefully placed candles, eyeglasses perched on the end of his long nose. Sean rapped lightly on the scarred mahogany door frame and he looked up, taking off his glasses and laying them down among the papers.

"Ah, you've returned, Sean. Good."

Sean stepped into the room. "I'm sorry to be so late coming back."

As expected, the doctor dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "No matter." He got up from his chair and stepped around the desk with an air of concern. "You look chilled to the bone, young man. Get warm."

Sean gladly stepped over to the fireplace and offered his palms to the warmth. Golden light danced over the fanciful figures carved in the pale marble of the mantel, and showed up the nicks and chips as well. The flickering firelight didn't reach into the shadowed corners or shed more than a faint illumination on the paintings and bookcases that lined the walls, but Sean had seen this room many times in daylight, in summer with the heavy drapes pulled back from floor to ceiling windows. She'd been a grand and stately house in her day, but she was old and beginning to crumble. It must take a great deal of time and money to keep such a place to high standards, and the school had limited funding. Sean knew how hard the doctor worked to make ends meet.

"Sit down, Sean."

Sean sat himself on the edge of the stuffed sofa before the fire. The satin brocade upholstery was worn but still handsome, much like Doctor Lawrence himself, with his care lined brow and unruly shock of white hair. Tall and lean, he carried himself very straight and steady for a man of near seventy. Sean admired and looked up to him, even thought of him as a man he would have liked for his father had he been given a choice. Sometimes, Sean knew, he wished for too much. Doctor Lawrence had always treated him with respect and kindness, but no more than he did the students or the servants, when he chanced to deal with them. Running the school left him little time for very much else. Sean understood that.

The doctor smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Tell me how it went, Sean."

The errand he'd been sent on, to look at a used piano. Sean was neither talented nor particularly knowledgeable where music was concerned, and was still unsure why he'd been chosen for the job. But the doctor wanted a second piano for the conservatory and he'd done his best. "It appeared in good condition. Miss Bellows played for me and it sounded fine to my ear."

Lawrence nodded. "Good. And what of Bellows himself?"

That was likely the real reason Sean had been sent. The doctor believed he was a good judge of character, had told him so. "Mister Bellows seemed a fair minded man."

"He agreed to our offer?"

After some push and pull. "Yes, Doctor."

The doctor was pleased. "Splendid." He turned and walked back to his desk. "You've had supper, I hope."

Sean nodded. "Yes." A sack of fried oysters from a street cart, if that counted, to eat as he walked and to keep his hands warm for a while. There was a clinking of glass and a shuffling of papers, then Lawrence came back and sat beside him on the sofa, with a small glass of brandy for him. Good brandy, Sean didn't doubt, and didn't decline to take. "Thank you, sir." It was a sign, surely, that the doctor had something to talk with him about, which warmed him as much as the liquor did.

The papers the man had gathered from the desk were a neat, tidy sheaf in his hands now. He put on his glasses and glanced over the one on top. "We're to have a new student, Sean. He'll be arriving tomorrow morning and I'd like for you to personally take him in hand."

It was business then. Sean answered as he must. "Yes, sir. A special case?"

The furrows in Lawrence's brow drew deeper. "In some ways, yes. A charity case. Samuel Denton, an old pupil of mine, brought the boy's situation to my attention. He's been teaching in a village up the coast, Piscataqua Landing, and discovered a lad with uncommon intelligence and eagerness to learn. I'm sure you, Sean, can appreciate what that means to a teacher."

Sean could, and knew as well how it felt to have a strong, inquisitive mind and no prospects for being able to use it. He could have predicted the doctor's next words.

"Regrettably, the boy's father took him out of school when he was thirteen and put him to work. Samuel was dashed, but resigned. There was nothing he could do. Then the lad lost his sight a few months ago in an accident on a boat, a blow to the head."

Their students were born blind and most came to the school around the age of seven or eight. One who had lived with sight and then lost it suddenly would require a different approach. Sean had only worked with the former. "He was schooled before he lost his sight. So he can read and write?"

"Yes. Samuel tells me the lad was studying well beyond his years. And now he's mending fishing nets." The doctor laid the papers on his lap, and took off his glasses with a sigh. "It would be an unconscionable waste to let a good mind fall to idleness for lack of means."

Sean agreed wholeheartedly, but still wasn't easy about it.

The doctor gave him a slow smile. "We'll find the funds."

"Yes, Doctor." Sean was sure of that. What concerned him was his fittedness for the job. "Wouldn't one of the others be better suited though?" The look he got for that withered him a little.

"Neville hasn't the sensitivity, I'm afraid."

Sean wouldn't argue that. "One of the ladies then… Emily?"

"No, Sean. The boy will likely need a good deal of help with personal matters. He has been without his sight for a relatively short time and is still mourning his loss. He will need guidance beyond the learning of letters and numbers. And, if the boy is as bright as Samuel believes, he will eventually want more than Miss Roundtree or Miss Pratt could teach him."

There was no denying how good it felt to know the doctor had such confidence in him. Sean resolved not to fail.

The doctor looked at him thoughtfully, kindly. "I know you aren't entirely happy here, Sean." Sean would have protested, but the man raised a hand to stop him. "I know you're grateful. It isn't the same thing. This will be a good challenge for you, something to occupy your mind as well as your time. You see?"

Sean did, quite clearly. "Thank you, sir."

With the matter settled, Doctor Lawrence decisively rose from the sofa. "We'll put him in the room next to yours. I don't believe he would be comfortable in the dormitory. He's sixteen and our boys at present are all years younger. Besides, you'll want to keep him close and look after him."

Sean quickly finished his brandy and got himself on his feet. "I will do my best, sir."

"I know you will, Sean." The doctor bestowed a benevolent smile on him and took the empty glass from his hand. "You had best turn in and get a good night's sleep."

Dismissed. The doctor had other business to attend to. Sean wished him a good night and moved for the door.

"Oh, Sean, his name is Elijah."

Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled and nodded, then went out. With a name, the boy became more than a case on paper, and Sean was disappointed in himself for thinking of his own comfort first. For thinking, as he had, that Doctor Lawrence meant this boy to be something that would engage his interest and keep him there. It could well be true. Lawrence had the school in his trust and would do what was necessary to keep it running smoothly. And Sean believed the doctor did truly value him. He understood. What unnerved him was having the man speak to him of his discontent, as if he knew perfectly well that it sometimes crossed Sean's mind to leave.

Rather than go straight up to his room, Sean took the stair back down to the still, silent front hall and made his way from there to the rear chambers of the house. He expected Taggert to step out of the gloom into his path at any moment, but thankfully heard no sound, and reached the kitchen without having to confront the man. His heart did jump into his throat, though, when Mother came darting out of nowhere to pounce on his bootlaces. He had to stoop to re-tie them and she stood up under his chin to make it harder, rubbing and rumbling. He scruffled her ears and she followed after him, no doubt hoping for a bite to eat.

There was a lamp left softly burning. In its light, Sean could see that the tables and work counters were scrubbed clean and everything was neatly put away, not a pan or a dish out of place. The fire in the great old hearth had been banked for the night, but a pot of cider hung there, covered and still steaming. With a heartfelt thanks to Gertrud for thinking of him, Sean ladled out a mug full and helped himself to a small plate of bread and cheese from the pantry. Mother danced around his ankles until he gave her a share and then took her leave, softly padding away into the night. The doctor's brandy had left a trail of heat through Sean's chest into his belly, and a buzz in his head. He hardly felt like eating, but he'd walked off anything he'd had that day and knew he needed something in his stomach. He took down a candle from the fireplace mantel and, lighting it from a glowing ember in the grate, went on to the library.

Neville Taggert was there, rotten luck. He sat at one of the tables in a circle of wan lamplight, slowly paging through a large reference tome. Sean hesitated and then went ahead, setting down his cup and saucer and holding his candle before him as he quietly walked along the north wall, straining to see the titles on the shelves in the poor light. He could feel Taggert's eye on him, but stoically ignored the man.

Sean had read every book in the library, as well as most of the doctor's private collection, many of them over and over. There wouldn't be anything new bought until next quarter, and then only if the budget allowed. But Sean had a good many favorites and didn't mind reading them again. His fingers hovered over Blackmore and then Dumas, lightly brushing their scuffed and broken spines, Hugo and Melville, breathing in the scent of adventure. Old and cherished friends all, but he finally settled on something more contemporary, Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues. He took it down and carefully tucked it under his arm to pick up his supper, and turned to leave.

Taggert stood there between himself and the door, clearly meaning to have a word. "One of the boys asked me today if he could begin to learn woodworking. He said you put him up to it."

Even standing to his full height, Sean still felt towered over, but it annoyed these days more than intimidated. "If it's Timothy you speak of, the boy confided in me a desire to work with his hands. He's twelve years old and very bright."

Taggert all but scowled. "He has inadequate coordination. You do them no service making them believe they can do whatever they set their minds to. Most of them can't."

In all honesty, Sean couldn't say that wasn't true, but you didn't tell them so. You didn't take away hope and refuse to let them even try. They'd had this conversation before, he and Taggert, and Sean knew the man wasn't going to give. But it wasn't about an issue, it was about a boy who had asked for Sean's help. He would have liked to lose his temper a little and tell Neville Taggert once and for all just exactly what he thought, but that wouldn't help young Timothy. So he only asked, as politely and pointedly as he could. "Please will you give the boy a chance? I'm sure he would only need time to get the feel of things. A little patience goes a long way." A word of advice for the man to take or leave. As expected, he would have nothing to do with it.

"Take the matter to Doctor Lawrence if you believe you know better than I."

Sean would if he had to, though he had no great confidence the doctor wouldn't side with Taggert. The man had influence with Doctor Lawrence that Sean had never liked, or understood. Sean had no say whatsoever when it came right down to it, a fact Taggert chose to rub him with as a parting shot.

"You're being shown no favor with this new responsibility. An unmannered fisherman's child, sullen and difficult. You'll have your hands full. And that will serve Doctor's purpose very well."

Sean's empty stomach turned uncomfortably. There was nothing he could say to counter that, and Taggert didn't give him a chance. The man stepped back, and turned and walked out. A shiver overtook Sean, the cold seeping in. It didn't shock as much as hurt, to imagine the two of them talking about him as if he was one of their cases on file. Taggert could have had no reason but pure meanness to tell him so. The idea that the man seemed to know more than he did about this boy he was taking on, that seriously rankled. Unmannered and sullen? It could be nothing but lies meant to cause him unease. It could be Taggert had wanted the responsibility himself and was just being jealous and spiteful. If it proved true that the boy was difficult, Sean supposed it was understandable and would cope to the best of his ability, but he hoped not.

Taggert was gone from sight and hearing, hopefully toward the front of the house. Sean escaped to the back stair with his lamp and his book and his mug of no longer hot cider, plate perched atop. Mother was at the door, scratching to be let through. Why it was closed was a mystery. Sean had to set down his candle to open it, and the cat slipped in and disappeared. No lamps were lit. Darkness followed behind and led him on, up the steep, winding steps with their creaking and deeply worn boards. There were no paintings on the walls here, no graceful banister, only a narrow window now and then on the outer wall, heavily draped to keep out the winter, which really did very little good. The drafts worried his candle flame and found their way down the back of his neck. His breath misted clouds on the frosty air.

Passing the second floor landing, a fat mouse went running by, leaping down the steps with Mother in hot pursuit, doing her duty. Sean didn't care to witness the carnage and hurried on, to the third floor and down the long, dark corridor. He stepped as lightly as he could so as not to disturb the servants already sleeping. The students and the rest of the staff had second floor rooms but there had been none available when Sean came, so he'd settled in on the third floor and stayed there. It afforded him more privacy and suited him fine.

It was a corner room, with windows on two walls, one looking southeastward toward the point, the other facing the harbor. The windows were Sean's salvation, but they were shuttered and draped that time of year, and the room was stone cold. Bertie had filled the woodbox and stacked the grate in the fireplace, and Sean lit it and got a fire burning straightaway. Too little of its warmth would reach the bed but it would spare him having to wash in ice water come morning. He knelt on the hearth rug, warming his hands and feeling the day's tensions slowly ease. His room was small and simply furnished, but it was home, with its cracks in the ceiling and its gilded rose wallpaper. He'd always valued it being his own, a place where he could be alone with himself when he needed to, but that was going to change.

The fireplace was shared by the next room. A door adjoined the two. It had surely been a suite when the house was a private residence, with sitting room and bedchamber, broken into separate lodgings after the school took it over. Sean pushed himself to his feet and, taking up the candle again, opened the door. This would be Elijah's room. It looked much the same as his own, a bed against one wall with a small, cloth covered table at its head, a wash stand with pitcher and basin beside the fireplace, a chair and a chest of drawers. There was one window, draped in faded purple. Doctor Lawrence had apparently known well ahead of speaking to Sean what the plan was to be. Clean towels and linens were folded over the racks, the bed freshly made. It was cold, of course, and though it would serve no purpose that night, Sean moved aside the fireplace screens to let some warmth into the room.

Leaving wasn't a serious option, not really. If Doctor Lawrence knew that he thought of it, the man must also know how unlikely it was to happen. After ten years of saving away every penny he could spare, Sean hadn't enough to even buy a horse, let alone ship's passage. Traveling across the ocean to see his mother's homeland was only a dream. There were more attainable goals and he'd considered them. He could simply leave the school and find other work, manual labor if need be. He could go west, as so many others were doing, and find his fortune on the frontier. Small of stature he might be, but he was no weakling, in mind or body. But he was also no fool. Everything he knew, he'd learned from books. All of his life experience could be handily displayed on a single page. And he was too practical minded not to see how hopeless it was.

Back in his own room, Sean went to the east window and pulled open the drapes to look out. It was snowing a flurry in the light of the streetlamp below, a gusting wind flinging ice crystals against the frosted panes. He didn't linger, only wanted to see the hazy, far away flash of the lighthouse beacon in the distance, through the trees and over the rooftops. He counted his blessings to its lazy rhythm, giving thanks for everything he had.

Jules Verne awaited him on his bedside table. The mug of cider he'd left close to the fire was warm still and smelled enticingly of cinnamon and clove. He undressed quickly, down to his drawers, and crawled between the frigid sheets with his candle and his supper at hand. It took a good minute for the bedding to begin to warm so he could stop shivering and get comfortable, then he stuffed his pillow behind his head against the hard brass bedstead and tugged the heavily padded quilts up under his chin. He pulled up his knees to make a rest for his book, and was content enough to lose himself for a while in another place and time.

Only a small, niggling concern still hovered, over the possibility of Elijah's arrival being delayed by the weather, and the simple fact that he couldn't decide if such delay would be a good thing or a bad thing.

*******

Elijah woke up shivering. He couldn't tell what time it was, but it had to be early because the house was silent as the dead, the only sound coming from outside as the wind rattled the windows. Pulling his knees up against his chest, he folded his thin nightshirt up under his feet. It had been Nate's before it had been his, and while he'd wished for something of his own, now he was glad of the hand-me-down, grateful for its length. Nate was much taller than he was, so the shirt came halfway down to his feet when he stood up, but with his knees tucked up, it covered him completely. He thought it must have been what that caterpillar had felt like, all wrapped up in its cocoon. Mister Denton had taken the class out to study nature and he'd stood there and watched the butterfly emerge. It had been a wondrous sight, but now it was just a painful memory. Now it hurt to think of all the things he'd seen, but would never see again.

Even tucked up inside his nightshirt and under his blanket, he still felt the chill. He missed his feather bed upstairs with its thick quilt. He'd hated having to share a bed with Nate, but now he missed the warmth of his brother's body lying beside him. He slept downstairs now, in a narrow, makeshift bed tucked into a nook beside the kitchen hearth. Being so close, he would have felt if there was any warmth coming from it, which meant the fire was close to gone. It was Nate's job to get the fire started now. Elijah wondered where he was, until he remembered how his brother had come stumbling into the house after everyone else was already in bed, knocking things over as he made his way upstairs. Too many ales with his shipmates at the tavern last night would have his head pounding this morning and he'd want to stay in bed, but Elijah didn't care about Nate's head. He was cold and he wanted to get warm.

Elijah wasn't allowed near the fire anymore, but he hadn't forgotten how to tend the hearth. Maybe if he showed Mama and Papa he could still be of help, then they'd change their minds and let him stay. He straightened out his legs and shivered anew as the blast of cold air shot up under the hem of his nightshirt and stroked his bare skin with a ghostly hand. After a moment he sat up and threw his legs over the side of the mattress, pulling the blanket around his shoulders to ward off the cold. The floor felt like ice under his bare feet, and he wished he'd kept his socks on in bed. He leaned down, searching for them on the floor, and his stomach turned over and he felt so dizzy he thought he was going to fall. Doctor Perkins had told him that might happen, that it would take time to get back his… What was the word he'd used? Equilibrium. A new word. Mister Denton had explained to him that it meant being able to keep your balance.

He reached for the stone wall to steady himself and nearly knocked over the drying rack hung with clothes. Mama would have his head if he dirtied all the clothes she'd just washed. Getting his balance, he found his direction, breathing in the sharp air and letting his heartbeat settle. Venturing on, he felt his way to the hearth ledge and around to the frayed rug in front. Reaching out a cautious hand toward the grate, he felt the faint warmth of the few embers still burning. All he had to do was stir it up and feed it. He'd done it before. He could do it again.

The wood crate was still there in the same place, the tools hanging from their hooks. He ran his fingers over them until he found the poker by its shape, the metal cold in his hand, a crust of ash clinging to its business end. He carefully stacked one arm with firewood from the box and brought it back to the rug, its splintered edges rough against his skin through his thin nightshirt. The blanket slid from his shoulders but he let it go, concentrating on his task, dropping the kindling while holding tight to the poker.

Heart beating fast, he knelt there catching his breath and tried to picture it in his mind. It was getting harder and harder to remember what things looked like. He'd been born in this house, had woken up in it every morning and gone to sleep in it every night, yet in only a few months, the memories of it were fading. He squeezed his eyes shut, and out of desperation, conjured up out of the recesses of his mind a picture of what his eyes could no longer see: the iron grate ten inches from the stone slab that fronted the firebox, and Mama's soup kettle hanging on its hook some foot and a half directly above. Inching the tip of the poker forward, he thrust it into the remains of last night's fire. He heard crackling, then something -- a chunk of log most likely -- fell with a thump that seemed to echo inside his head. Swirling ash flew up his nose and he sneezed, the sound like an explosion in the silent room. He felt another sneeze coming on, and in an attempt to muffle it with his hands, dropped the poker. It missed the rug and hit the stone floor with a clang like the tolling of the bell for Sunday service.

Elijah waited, but nothing happened. Nate hadn't come downstairs, angry with his brother for waking him up so early. He waited a few minutes more, missing the blanket, his goose-pimpled arms clasped about him. The wind was still howling like a banshee. A loose shutter banged somewhere, and he thought he heard a floorboard creak upstairs, but when his nose caught the smell of burning wool, every other thought was driven out of his head. Getting on his knees, he reached out, fumbling wildly for the dropped blanket, praying he was wrong. He had just touched the corner of it when he heard the hurried footsteps on the stairs.

"Elijah!"

Mama's yell pierced the morning stillness, and in his surprise, he yanked the blanket toward him, bringing it's burning end almost into his lap. Smoke stung his eyes and made him cough. He pushed the blanket away from him and was trying to stand up when he suddenly felt his legs go out from under him. He thought he had lost his balance again, but it was Mama, pulling him back and away from the hearth. She hugged him to her, stroking his hair and murmuring, "My baby, my baby." Then she grasped his shoulders and holding him away from her, shook him.

"Elijah, what were you thinking?"

There was exasperation in her voice, and worse, much worse, disappointment. He had wanted Mama and Papa to see he wasn't helpless, but he'd only showed them he couldn't be trusted not to burn the house down. Because of what he'd done, this surely would be his last morning at home.

There was more tramping on the stairs and Papa's voice suddenly boomed, "What in God's name?!" Elijah heard the sound of Nate's boots coming down the stairs, then their thick, heavy soles were stamping out what had to be the burning blanket. Blessing came down next, and joined her brother and father, adding to the confusion. He knew their voices, but it was still hard to know where they were and what was going on when everyone was talking at once. Papa made his voice heard above the others when he told Mama, "Take the boy out of harm's way!"

The stamping had stopped, so Elijah knew they must have put out the fire, but the smell lingered. Mama marched him over to his bed and sat down with him. Most of her anger was gone now. He could tell by the way she held him against her, cradling him as if he was a baby. He wanted to pull away, but he felt so safe in her arms, had since he was a small boy. She always knew how to comfort him when he was hurt or scared. Loving words or kisses could always make his childhood hurts better, but what was wrong with him now couldn't be made better with hugs and kisses, couldn't be fixed at all.

"Elijah, why would you do such a foolish thing?" Mama asked.

"The fire had gone out and I was cold. I was only trying to help. "

In answer to that, she wrapped her blanket close about him. "That chore is Nathaniel's now. You know it's much too dangerous for you--"

"But I wanted to try. I thought if I showed you I could help with the chores, then you wouldn't send me away."

Mama had no answer for that, or refused to give one. Instead, he felt her turn away. "Blessing," she called, "bring me a lamp and a damp cloth." When Blessing had brought what was asked for, Mama took his chin in her hand and turned his head this way and that, examining him. "Look at you," she sighed, "you're soot from nose to tail. And after we just gave you a bath last night."

She tried to sound cheerful, but Elijah could hear the lie in her voice. He couldn't have borne it if he truly believed she wanted him to go. It was his father who wanted him gone, his father who worried how they would get by with a mouth to feed who couldn't work and pay for his upkeep. Gone away, at least he wouldn't be a burden on his mother anymore. He let her wash his hands and face, though he could have done as much for himself, and he dutifully blew his nose when she told him to.

Mama patted his knee, her touch always tender, even when she was vexed with him. "There's no great harm done, Elijah."

"No great harm done?" Papa was standing over them, his booming voice drifting down from his great height. "The boy could have lost us our home, and where would we be then? What the devil got into you, son?"

"I was only trying to help," Elijah repeated. "I thought...." He couldn't finish, didn't see the point when Papa never listened to anything he had to say.

Mama said softly, "He thought if he showed us he could still do his chores, you -- we wouldn't send him away."

Elijah heard a heavy sigh escape from his father's lips, then felt the side of the mattress go down as Papa sat down beside them. "You'll be going to school again, Elijah. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"I can go to school here," Elijah said softly. "Mister Denton--"

"Mister Denton doesn't know how to teach children like you."

Children like him. Broken. Useless.

"It's all settled and can't be changed." Papa got up from the bed. "Get him dressed, Sarah," he told Mama, "and make him look presentable. It's bad enough the whole village knows we're taking charity by letting him go to that school, I won't have him showing up there looking like some ragamuffin."

Mama took his hands and held them in hers, and he knew she was looking right at him. He wanted to say he was sorry, but the words got stuck in his throat and wouldn't come out. She sighed. "Ah, my little one, don't look like that. It'll be better for you there. They'll take care of you. And there will be others." She didn't say the rest, like you, but he heard it in her voice. "You'll make friends, Elijah. You'll be all right."

Friends. You couldn't count on them. Not one of his friends had come to see him after he'd been hurt, only Mister Denton, who had still cared enough about Elijah to come to the house to see how he was doing. Right after the accident, when he'd still been too dizzy to get out of bed, he and Mister Denton had talked for hours about the books his teacher had given him to read, The Three Musketeers, Huckleberry Finn, and Moby Dick, which had been Elijah's favorite because it was a story about fishermen chasing a great white whale. Once he was well enough, Mama had put him to work mending tears in the nets so he could still be of some use to the family. She'd been very patient with him, showing him what to do, helping him until he'd been able to work on his own. Mister Denton's visits had stopped then, but Elijah would always remember his kindness. It was because of Mister Denton that he was going to this new school, and even though he knew he should be grateful, because going back to school meant he'd have to leave his home and his family, Elijah didn't want to go.

Mama squeezed his hands, then let them go. "Let's get you dressed. Your teacher will be here to fetch you soon."

Hearing her say it loosed a nest of spiders in Elijah's stomach. He didn't want to go. He would miss Mama too much, and Blessing, and this was his home. He knew the cottage well enough to get around. He didn't know anywhere else. Elijah clutched the blanket around him. "I can do it, Mama."

Mama sighed again, and he heard her moving around the small space, laying out his clothes on the bed for him, close at hand, in order and rightways so he wouldn't have to fumble over which way things went. "All right then. You do what you can and call if you need me."

Elijah listened to her walk away. He could hear his father still stamping around in a temper. His fault. The door opened on a howl of wind, then closed again, and Nathaniel clunked down a bucket of water. Bringing water from the well had been Elijah's job, too, and now Nate had to do it, do all the things he couldn't do anymore. He knew that Nate blamed him for what had happened, had told everyone he'd been careless. Elijah didn't remember very much about the accident, but there were flashes of memory. Someone yelling. The boom swinging into his view. A sickening crack. Then nothing. Sometimes when the wind blew hard, like today, he could almost see it.

"Elijah." Blessing, close. "You'd better hurry. Do you want help?"

"No!" Elijah said defiantly. She went away and left him to it. They'd started a good fire. He could smell it, but it hadn't spread much warmth yet. A pair of clean socks were on top of the pile of his clothes. He put them on and that helped. He stood and pulled his longjohns on under his night shirt, then the trousers Mama had picked for him to wear, his Sunday best. He had to drop the blanket and give up his nightshirt to put on the rest, a thick long-sleeved undershirt and his newest overshirt, a long-sleeved white one. His braces were already buttoned onto the back of his trousers. He had only to wriggle them over his shoulders and fix them in the front. It shouldn't have been so hard.

"Are you almost finished?" Blessing again. Her hands fluttered over him as if she was brushing something off his clothes, but he could feel that she was straightening his braces. Even with all his care, he'd still managed to get them twisted.

Papa and Mama were talking, and knowing they were far enough away so they couldn't hear him, Elijah said, "I'm scared, Bless. I won't know anyone there."

"Not at first, but you'll make friends, I know you will. And Mister Denton thinks you should go to this school. He wouldn't send you there if he thought you'd be unhappy, would he?" Elijah pondered this, then shook his head. She ran her fingers lightly through his hair. "Elijah Lucas," she exclaimed, "how do you manage to get so many tangles in your hair just getting out of bed? It looked so beautiful last night after your bath. No mind, we'll have it looking fine again in no time." Elijah knew Blessing always carried her comb in the pocket of her duster. Mama told her she cared too much about her appearance, but he had always loved watching her comb her long, brown curls. She settled him onto the bed then sat down beside him and began to comb his hair, humming as she worked. "You always had such beautiful hair, even as a baby." She brought her mouth close to his ear. "Did I ever tell you that I loved you from the moment I saw you?"

She hadn't told him. "You did?" he asked.

"Yes. After you were born, the midwife let us into Mama and Papa's room, and when I saw you there on her breast, I thought you were the sweetest thing I'd ever seen." She chuckled. "I thought Mama had brought you home just for me to play with and fuss over, but she told me you were too little to play with, that you needed to be taken care of. I said I wanted to take care of you, and she let me."

And she had taken care of him, been as much of a mother to him as Mama. "Bless, I'm going to miss you most of all."

"Oh my sweet lamb, I'm going to miss you, too, but it won't be forever." She finished combing his hair, then kissed his cheek, standing him up so she could help him on with his sweater.

It wasn't his sweater, but one of Nate's, or maybe Papa's, way too big for him. He had one of his own, but Mama must have thought his best wasn't good enough for the place he was going. If there had been time, he knew she would have made him a new one.

"There," Blessing said when he was finally dressed. "You look very handsome." She took his arm and led him around to the kitchen. "Careful now. Don't trip over your case."

Elijah didn't have a case, so it had to be Mama's, the one that had been handed down to her by her mother. It should have gone to Blessing when the time came, to take on her own marriage trip, but now he needed it to carry the things he was taking with him, the things Mama had chosen and packed for him. She steered him around the obstacle and sat him down on the end of the nearest bench. He gripped the worn smooth edge of the table to help him keep track of where things were.

It was more tense than usual this morning. Nate and Papa were snarling at each other about Nate's carousing. Even with their raised voices, Elijah could still hear Rufus scratching to be let in. Blessing opened the door just enough so the big dog could pad in. He went directly to the hearth where he sprawled out in front of the fire. A smell of toasting bread rose on the warm air wafting from the hearth, and as he leaned forward to inhale it, Papa left off wrangling with Nate to tell him to sit straight and stop hanging on the table. "You're not a beggar, Elijah. Show some pride." It stung, but Elijah forced his back straight and let go of the table, but for one finger.

Through it all there was the familiar sound of Mama stirring the porridge, the steady, clinking scrape of the spoon, one of his earliest memories. Elijah could almost see her there, with her coal dark hair down and loose in the morning firelight, streaked all through with white. He wondered with a pang if it had gone more white than dark since the last time he saw it. She wasn't saying a word, letting Papa and Nate argue it out. The bickering between them was never too serious. Nate was most everything Papa wanted in a son. Of the older brothers, he was the one who'd stayed home to work at Papa's side every day.

A plate was set down before him and he knew it wasn't porridge. Bless told him it was buttered, split buns and to be mindful of his clean clothes. He'd wanted Mama's porridge one more time, but they wouldn't want to risk him making a mess that morning. Elijah realized with regret that this was a morning of many lasts. His last time sleeping in his small, cramped bed. His last time sitting at the long, wooden table. His last breakfast with his family. He picked up one of the buns and nibbled on the corner.

"Don't dawdle, Elijah," Mama told him. "Mister Denton will be here soon."

"I'm not very hungry," he answered in a small voice.

"Let him be," Papa said. "It won't kill the boy to miss a meal. I'm sure they'll feed him at that school when he gets there. He'll be fine."

Elijah didn't think he'd be fine once he got to the school, or even after. He didn't think he'd be fine ever again, but he didn't get the chance to say so. There was a familiar knock on the door. Mister Denton, here already, before they had even finished with breakfast. Mama went to answer it, her skirts rustling, while he sat there very still and intently listened to a gust of wind as the door was pulled open, and a stamping of boots that meant it was snowing.

"Good Morning, Mistress Lucas."

"Good morn to you, sir. Step inside, if you please so we can shut out the wind." Mama closed the door and the noise from outside was deadened again. "We'll have Elijah ready for you in no time."

Papa got up from the table, and Nate after him. They were expected on the dock before sunrise. Goodbyes would have to be brief, but that was surely for the best. The little breakfast Elijah got down had settled uneasily. Blessing brought him his boots, but his hands were shaking so that she had to help him put them on. Papa was talking with Mister Denton about the weather, saying he hoped it wouldn't make too hard a trip to the city. Elijah's heart beat faster, his head buzzing. He knew there was no other choice for him, but he didn't want to go.

"Are you ready, Elijah? I hope you aren't too nervous, because there's really no need. I know you'll find the people at Newsome's very kind and understanding." Mister Denton spoke in an overly cheerful voice. It sounded to Elijah like his teacher was nervous, too, and that didn't calm his foreboding. But voicing his fears would only make it harder for everyone, so he only nodded. "It isn't very pleasant out," Mister Denton went on, "but I have extra blankets in the buggy, and I've hired a driver to take us. We'll tuck in and persevere, and we should be there by mid-morning."

Mama put Elijah's cap on his head and Bless took his hand to pull him to his feet. He jumped when Papa's heavy hand came down on his shoulder. "You mind your manners, Elijah, and do what you're told." The voice was gruffer even than usual, as if he'd already disobeyed. "And be respectful to your elders."

"Yes, Papa."

Then Papa touched his cheek for just a moment, fingers rough and chapped. "God be with you, son." He clumped away to the door and pulled it open, with Nate following. The door closed again, and they were both gone.

From that point on, everything happened too fast. Blessing planted a warm kiss to his temple, then stepped away, with him keeping hold of her hand until he had to let go. Mister Denton asked about his belongings and Bless must have shown him the case. Elijah heard him take it up to carry, as Mama took him to the door with a soft touch on his back to guide him, even though he knew the way. When she hugged him hard and tight, he almost cried. "Be happy, my little one."

Mister Denton came back from taking his case to the buggy, and Mama let him go. He had a lump in his throat he couldn't speak around, but she knew, and Bless did too, how much he loved them. Mister Denton took his elbow and led him outside. He didn't hear the door close behind, so he knew they would be watching him leave.

Snow swirled around his face and there was a biting nip in the air, with a smell of wood fires smoking. A horse snorted and stamped. "Here, Elijah, there's a step."

Elijah felt for and found it, and pulled himself up into the carriage. It was all open but the sides were high so he could huddle down in the seat and be out of the wind. Mister Denton settled beside him and covered him with blankets up to his chin, then said a word to the driver, who chirped to the horse and shook the reins. And off they went.

With a start, Elijah pulled one hand from under the blankets and raised it in farewell, and in return, heard Blessing's voice call out on the wind for him to take care. The last shreds of the only life he'd known were slipping away. With his heart thumping, he listened to the wheels of the buggy clattering over the frozen streetbed, and felt it when they started up the hill to the high road, leaving the village behind.

********

The hall clock chimed eleven and Sean had to restrain himself from going to the window to peek out through the curtain one more time. It had stopped snowing but there was a good seven inches on the ground, drifting to feet in places. The porch had been swept and the walk cleared to the street, but the street itself was a mire. Traffic in the city would be slow and troublesome, if not worse. It seemed anticipation had won out over dread. Sean hoped his new pupil would be able to make it through.

It grew very quiet. He looked up from the book in his hands and they were listening intently for him to go on, the youngsters gathered there with him in the second floor front study. "I'm sorry, where was I?" Several of them spoke up and informed him of where he'd left off. These were the older children, those with hearing, and he was giving them a history lesson, reading to them selected passages from John Adams' Diary. He got no further with it that day.

Emily appeared in the doorway, smiling and cheerful. "Mister O'Shea?"

Heads turned, ears pricking. Sean let her know he was there. "Yes, Miss Roundtree." She came into the room and made her way to his side with only the stick in her left hand any indication she couldn't see. She hardly seemed to use it.

"I'm to take your classes for the rest of the day. You're wanted in the front parlour."

Then the boy had arrived. Sean closed his book and set it aside, and pulled over a chair for Emily. "We've been talking about the founding fathers but if you have something else prepared, that will be no problem of course." He addressed the children in a serious tone. "You will all attend to Miss Roundtree, please."

Emily laughed, in that way she had, like he was being silly and should stop. "We will be fine, Mister O'Shea." She spread her skirts and settled on the chair he'd placed for her, with a volume in Braille open on her knees. "You'd best hurry. Doctor Lawrence is waiting."

Yes. Sean thanked her and said good day to the children, then made haste out and down the corridor to the front stair, and found himself stopped in his tracks on the upper landing. They were in the hall below, making polite small talk, Lawrence and Taggert, and a man of thirty or so with thick, iron-rimmed spectacles, dressed frugally and without pretention, as Sean himself was.

Close beside this man stood the boy, looking like a waif in clothing that was too big for him. Pale, thin fingers clutched his cap before him, barely peeking from the sleeves of a bulky sweater that hung halfway to his knees. A small, battered trunk sat on the floor at his feet, a poignant reminder to Sean of how he'd come to the school at eighteen, with very little to his name, and no way to go back, no real home he could return to if he failed. The boy's head was down but his back and shoulders were straight as if tightly tensed. He was overwhelmed. Too many voices. Too much uncertainty.

Sean pushed himself on and hurried down the stair, to a discreet frown from Taggert, who surely didn't need to be there. Doctor Lawrence turned a smile on him as he approached, and introduced him. The boy seemed not to notice, but Samuel Denton warmly shook his hand.

"I very much hope Elijah will do well here." He turned to the boy and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to go with Doctor Lawrence now, Elijah, but I'll see you again before I leave. Mister O'Shea will help you get settled in."

Elijah lifted his head in a slight nod but his eyes remained downcast. Sean could see he was shivering, unmelted snow dusting the curling ends of his dark hair. He needed a fire and something warm to drink, in a quiet place where he could sit a while and get his bearings.

Doctor Lawrence understood, and caught Sean's eye with an encouraging look. "We'll leave you two to get acquainted." He went with the boy's teacher up the stair.

Taggert lingered, until Sean looked him square in the eye with all the little authority Lawrence had given him where this boy was concerned. "We'll be fine, Mister Taggert. Thank you." The man stared back at him for a moment, openly hostile, but took himself elsewhere.

With the smallest cock of his head, listening, Elijah slowly raised his eyes. Deep blue, they were, softly unfocused, and they drifted over Sean's face before settling on a spot above his head. He was a handsome lad, with a blush from the cold on his cheeks and those dark brows and lashes against pale skin. His expression spoke a great deal to Sean, of fearfulness and anxiety, and determination. Sean's instinct to nurture took full charge of the situation. Here was a life he could help to make better. And instinct told him the way to best do that was by treating him as a friend, without the aloofness of authority between them.

A hint of confusion crossed Elijah's face and he finally spoke, his voice soft and tentative. "Mister O'Shea?"

Sean reached out to touch the boy's cold hand, and gently clasped it in both of his. "Elijah, please call me Sean."


End file.
